


times gone by

by quillquiver



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, BUT MAKE IT ANGSTY, Blow Jobs, F/M, First Time, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, New Year's Eve, Sex Work, Trauma, and ends with major fluff, and only in reference to Hell, but NOT Dean/Cas, dean has had a lot of shitty new years eves, fuck 2020 im out, it's an angst salad but also kind of sweet?, some implied/referenced homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28466343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillquiver/pseuds/quillquiver
Summary: Dean has kissed a lot of different people at midnight.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Other(s)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 282





	times gone by

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This fic basically follows Dean's NYE kisses from childhood to the present, so there's some abusive John, some sex work to keep Sam fed (might be underage depending on the laws in your state/province), and some mentions of serious trauma and implied rape and torture from Hell. 
> 
> All of that being said, thank you for reading, and have a very happy new year! GOODBYE 2020 HELLO 2021.

_1983_

Sammy’s wailing on the lumpy couch; boxed in by pillows and covered in his baby blanket. Dean’s baby blanket. His old one. Sam screams and screams and screams like he's got an extra pair of lungs in that tiny body of his, and Dean wonders how he can stand to be so loud when the world is always already yelling. 

Sliding off the mattress, dressed in his too-tight dinosaur pjs, Dean scurries across the hard motel carpet and leans over his brother. When he tries to give him his pacifier, Sam throws it away. Tears stream down his round face and Dean clumsily wipes them away. He smells Sammy’s diaper and goes to warm up his bottle. He has to push a chair in front of the microwave to reach it.

Dean doesn’t like talking, so he wraps an arm around Sam’s tiny body and presses a kiss to his wet cheek.

The microwave beeps.

Dean’s running back from it when the door slams open and Dad—a big shadow in his leather jacket—shoulders his way inside, bringing the snow and cold with him. He takes one look at Dean and yells something about sleeping.

Dean puts the bottle on the table and runs back to bed.

The clock reads 12:01am.

***

_1995_

“ _Ten… nine… eight… seven…_ ”

Sarah inches closer to him, perched delicately on the edge of the mattress while she, Dean and Sam stare at the motel’s shitty TV. Fingers brush Dean’s own and he feels his cheeks get hot. Sweat gathers at the back of his neck and under his arms and he swallows thickly.

“ _Five… four… three… two…_ ”

“Hey, Dean?”

“ _One…_ ”

“Ye—”

“ _Happy new year!_ ”

She kisses him fast: a soft, dry press of lips that has Dean’s face flaming and Sam recoiling in disgust. “Ew, _Dean_ —”

But Sarah squeezes Dean’s hand and he squeezes back and he’s suddenly really glad he invited her—that he’s not alone with Sam, both in their pjs staring at the boob tube while everybody else goes to parties and misses curfew. Swallowing thickly, Dean threads their fingers and ducks his head, green eyes still glued to her flushed cheeks and lopsided paper crown. He can’t stop looking at her, not for a second; she’s beautiful.

“Uh, happy new year,” he murmurs.

She grins back. “Happy new year.”

They skip town three days later.

***

_1996_

“That’s it, take it.”

The concrete is hard under his knees and it smells like gasoline and fries—and, more immediately, the funk of unwashed crotch. The john shoves forward and Dean chokes around his mouthful, swallowing and making an attempt to better open his throat. He’s drooling and there are tears in his eyes, but there’s an edge to the biting humiliation that’s not so bad. It makes him feel kinda—good. Powerful.

And the pay’s better than anything else available to a seventeen-year-old dropout.

“Fuck, I knew you were a slut the minute I laid eyes on you. You need it, huh?”

Dean moans because it’s what the john wants to hear, doubles down and sucks harder. Looks up with heavy eyes. Hums. He wants to get back to Sam by midnight.

The john’s getting close. He wheezes when he comes, and the taste of him makes Dean gag—he swallows, though; sticks out his tongue and looks up from the ground with big green eyes. The john snorts. Shakes his head.

“Fuckin’ faggot.”

He pulls up his pants and leaves.

Dean sighs and gets to his feet, shoving the bills in his back pocket. He makes his way towards the Gas n’ Sip and asks for the bathroom key. The door sticks as he shoulders his way in.

After doing this for almost a year, Dean’s figured out the basics: pay up front, mouth and hands only, extra no rubber, extra to swallow. He still doesn’t know what it is about him that gives him away, though. His mouth? His face? The way he walks? Holds himself?

_I knew you were a slut the minute I laid eyes on you._

Dean splashes water on his face and rinses out his mouth; makes quick work of brushing his teeth with the travel-sized brush and paste.

 _Fuckin’ faggot_.

He spits and stares at himself in the mirror. Checks his watch.

12:10am.

***

_1997_

Dad’s gonna kill him. Dean deserves it, too—but it ain’t like Sam ever goes out, so when the kid had told him he was going to a house party Dean had pretty much been powerless to refuse. Of course, if god exists he’s a cruel, twisted fuckface, because Dad blows in at 11:50 covered in ghoul guts.

He’s pissed, but prioritizes a shower over breaking in Dean’s teeth which is—great. Dean grabs his jacket and the keys and books it. He was dumb enough to agree to the party in the first place—they gotta be back by the time Dad’s outta the shower.

Despite the time crunch, Dean parks Baby like the queen she is before bolting from the driver’s seat like a friggin’ rocket. Sam’s not hard to spot: he’s got an overgrown head of hair and is more bean pole than teenager. He’s awkwardly standing beside some equally awkward girl and Dean physically resists the urge to smirk. Across the room, a different girl in a crop top catches his eye. She’s not a dumb kid and she’s too young to own this house, so she must be the sibling chaperone. Dean winks. She raises an unimpressed brow.

And, well. Not like there’s time for something to come of that, anyway.

“Hey, Sammy.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hisses. He’s turning bright red, but Dean gives him The Look and he pales, instead. “Fuck,” he mutters. Turns to his friend. “Uh… sorry, Julia. I gotta—”

“ _Ten! Nine! Eight! Seven!_ ”

Dean’s heart seizes. “Sam, now.”

They’re almost at the door when Dean feels himself shoved up against it and kissed. He faintly hears the cheering of people ringing in the new year, and Sam grumbling beside him, but all he can see are the hot girl’s big, brown eyes and taste her sweet, tacky lipgloss. “Happy new year,” she says, like it doesn’t matter. Dean swallows thickly. Nods.

“Yeah. I’m—”

“Dean!” Sam exclaims, motioning to the door.

“Marissa,” the girl answers. She’s got a great smile.

Dean feels himself smiling back. “Uh—yeah. Marissa. Bye?”

She nods. “Bye, Dean.”

Huh.

***

_1998_

It’s almost a relief that it’s over with—usually, Dean’d have wait until Dad’s a couple bottles in before getting smacked for his incompetence. He screwed the pooch majorly this time, though; they couldn’t save the victims before they ganked the monster, Sam almost friggin’ bit it—and all because of Dean’s stupid mistake.

His eye’s gonna bruise and he’s pretty sure he has a cut on the apple of his cheek—his nose is definitely bleeding. It’s nothing more than he deserves, though. Maybe. 

To his right, Sam’s sitting like he’s got a rod shoved up his ass. He’s practically vibrating: glaring daggers out the window, fingers digging into the leather backseat and shoulders hunched up to his ears. The more it goes, the easier it is to set him off, and Dean’s not in the mood for an argument tonight—especially not one on his behalf. He sighs.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs, reaching across the seat. The clock strikes midnight and he loops an arm around Sam’s shoulders, bringing him in for a squeeze and a kiss to the side of his head. “Happy new year, bitch.”

“Jerk,” Sam grunts. He pretends to struggle for a minute before settling down against Dean’s shoulder, wrapping an arm around his waist.

Dean looks out the window.

***

_1999_

It’s a new fuckin’ millennium. Or it’s gonna be, in—two hours. Dean snorts into his whiskey: the year 2000. Shouldn’t there be… flying cars by now, or something? A chip that downloads all knowledge directly into your brain? A robot that follows you around and feeds you snacks?

Dean reaches for his glass and fumbles his grip, frowning at the cheap, fingerprinted thing. He isn’t sure how many he’s had, but the number’s high enough to keep him looking at the guy sitting at the other end of the bar. He’s got dark hair and darker eyes and long, brown fingers reach out to curl around his beer. Dean forces himself to frown at the grain of the bar top. This is bad. It was a bad fuckin’ idea to come here anyway, and Mister McHotFingers over there’s only makin’ things worse.

His stomach growls. God, he’s hungry. Where’s that snack robot when you need it?

“What kind of snacks?”

Dean almost jump three feet in the air. “Holy _shit_!”

“Sorry,” the dude says sheepishly over the noise. It’s him. The guy. The man. With the hands.

“Uh… hi?”

“Can I…?”

“Yeah, sure.”

He’s got a crooked, boyish smile despite the fact that there’s the suggestion of silver at his temples, and Dean swallows thickly. Takes a large pull of his drink. Almost chokes when the dude sildes onto the stool bedside him and offers his hand, grin softening into something a little more hesitant, a little sweeter. “I’m Des.”

“…Dean.”

Des nods to his almost empty drink. “You want another?”

“Uh. Um. Yeah—I mean. Yes. Please.”

“Can we get two more over here?” Des flags down the bartender.

Suddenly, it’s a minute to midnight.

Dean isn’t sure how they managed to spend like two hours chatting at the bar, but _Rockin’ New Year's Eve_ doesn't lie. And hey, no skin off his nose—where everyone else is getting ready to count down, Dean is heading towards the bathrooms.

He knows how this part goes.

Des squeezes his hand and finds a darkened corner in the small hallway, and he slides his long fingers over Dean’s hips and pulls him close and steps forward, but instead of being devoured suddenly Dean’s being kissed, soft and sweet and exploratory, like they’re dating or like each other or some shit, and it’s so goddamn nice Dean is pretty sure his nails are biting red half-moons into his own palms.

Des pulls away and kisses up the bolt of his jaw. “Is this okay?”

“Y-Yeah.”

He moves down to his neck, finds the place there that makes his toes curl, and Dean’s head finally thunks against the wall—eyes closing, bottom lip sucked between his teeth. He swallows a quiet, happy sound and feels himself relax. Allows himself to wrap his arms around Des’s shoulders, to bury a hand in his hair.

They’re kissing good and proper again, and it’s so nice Dean throws himself into it with his entire body. The entire world is fuzzy at its edges and narrowed to a point in the places they touch, and Dean faintly hears cheering in the background. He feels something big and heavy inside himself clench and unclench, roll around in his stomach and up his throat and this is—god it’s so good, but there’s—he’s gonna—

Dean pushes Des away just in time to puke all over the sticky bar floor.

Fuck.

“Sorry,” he mutters, embarrassed. “Sorry, I can—I can—”

Des shrugs, pulling a small packet of tissues from his pocket. He wipes Dean’s mouth and kisses his temple. “It happens.”

Dean’s never had a hookup stick around after getting sick, but Des helps him to the bathroom and doesn’t question the toothpaste he pulls from his jacket pocket. He’s quiet and nice, and he touches Dean’s back and shoulders and arm, but when Dean turns around and kisses him, he barely reciprocates.

“Not tonight, sweetheart.”

“No.” Dean can feel embarrassed, drunk tears welling in his eyes and he bites his lip, blinking in an attempt to get rid of them. “M’fine, promise. I want to—I have to—I—”

“Good looking guy like you? You’ll get another chance.” Des gives him a small smile. “But I think I should get you home tonight.”

Dean frowns. “I don’t need your pity.”

“No pity,” Des says. “I can put you in a cab.”

Dean bites his lip. “I’m… at the motel across the street.”

“I could walk you to your door?”

“What, you sweet on me or somethin’?”

Des stares. Dean stares back.

It feels like they stay like that for an hour, but Des eventually steps forward and kisses the corner of his mouth. “Happy new year, Dean.” He sounds sad.

And then he’s gone.

Dean stares at the bathroom door until some asshole walks through it, immediately whirling around to frown at the mirror. His eyes start to prickle and he squeezes them shut.

Fuck.

***

_2007_

“You ready?”

Dean nods against the mattress, hands turning to fists in the sheets. They’re nice—soft, the kind you get from a real department store, made of Egyptian cotton or whatever-the-fuck. Dean feels a finger against his hole and tenses.

“You gotta relax, baby.”

Dean swallows thickly. “M’relaxed.”

“How about…” Teeth nip at Dean’s right asscheek. Dean bites his lip. “I help you relax?”

“O-okay.”

The dude’s name is Tanner, and he’s the all-American, boy next door type of handsome. He also, apparently, likes eating ass. Dean feels his toes curl and he arches his back, swallowing the noises pushing at his teeth as he moves his hands to bury his face in them. He feels hot all over and bites his fist.

“Holy— _ah_!”

Tanner’s tongue is long and wet and he presses slurpy, sucking kisses to his hole and perineum and it’s good, it’s so good, it’s so insanely motherfucking _good_ that Dean is the most relaxed friggin’ guy on the planet by the time the dude’s slipping on a rubber and pushing in. He’s slow; reaching down to jerk Dean’s dick, to press kisses up his spine—to whisper _relax_ in his ear, like he’s not huge, like this isn’t a big deal, like Dean isn’t getting fucked up the ass after being eaten out. Like the ghost of John friggin’ Winchester isn’t rolling over in his grave. Like Dean isn’t gonna die in a couple months.

Tanner slides on home and presses a hand above Dean heart. Kisses his shoulder and neck. Gives him time to adjust. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Dean turns and kisses him, and it’s weirdly sweet. When they pull away, Tanner laughs and nods towards the clock. It’s kinda fucked up, feeling him laugh and huff while the guy’s inside him, but Dean looks at the bedside table anyway.

Midnight.

Tanner kisses at the nape of Dean’s neck and strokes his cock. “Happy new year,” he murmurs as he starts to thrust.

Dean’s too busy biting back noises to answer.

***

_2008_

“Fuck you, fucking asshole!”

The girl—Laura, Lisa, something with an L—storms out of the motel room as Dean looks despondently at his dick. It rests against his thigh like it’s taking a nap or some shit, and Dean figures he’s way drunker than he originally thought if he can’t get it up in front of a gorgeous woman. Especially when he—he’s back. Thinking about Hell makes his skin crawl, especially when he’s naked, and Dean pulls the starchy, rough sheet over his bare shoulder and tries to think of the ways different people have touched him. Like they wanted him. Like they didn’t want to hurt him.

He runs a shaking hand over his mouth and it comes away red with lipstick. The clock reads 12:03am.

Happy fucking new year.

***

_2011_

His name doesn’t matter, but he has blue eyes.

***

_2014_

“Dean, what the hell, man?”

Dean wipes his mouth as he flags down the bartender for their beer, smirking at the girl who’s sauntering away. “What, Sam?”

“Cas is right there!”

“So?” Dean shrugs him off, grabs their beers. “It was a kiss. ’Sides, ain’t like me n' Cas are together. That'd be—” He sakes his head.

“This is fucked up, even for you. The Mark—”

Dean shoves Sam’s pint glass into his chest. The stuff sloshes over the sides and wets his shirt and jeans and shoes. Something in Dean quiets a little. “Shut up about the Mark, okay? I’m good. Happy new year.”

Cas is staring at him as he slides back into the booth, and Dean reminds himself that he has nothing to feel guilty about.

***

_Now_

“Time check!”

Sam rolls his eyes, but indulgently calls out _five minutes_. He turns back to the fridge to get a bottle of bubbly and starts filling glasses, handing three to Dean. Dean, with a lopsided tissue paper crown on his head and a face flushed from good beer, doesn’t spill a drop as he makes his way to the Dean Cave.

“Hey, what the fuck, Hasselhof?”

“What your fucking language, Barbie.”

Claire rolls her eyes but accepts the plastic flute, watching quizzically as Dean hands one to Jack before stepping over the graveyard of empty pizza boxes to throw himself onto the couch. “This one’s for you,” he tells Cas, handing it over.

“You’re not having one?”

“We can share? I could only grab three.”

The TV is showing a closeup of the ball in Times Square, and Cas is watching raptly. He’s wearing a pj t-shirt and some sweats, and his feet are bare, and there’s something so goddamn compelling about him. Dean stares until Cas realizes he’s being looked at, blushing when he’s caught. Cas kisses him.

“Hey! Save it for midnight!” Donna shuffles through the door with more flutes in hand, handing one to Dean and passing one to Jody as she moves into the room next, followed by Kaia, Alex, Patience, Sam and Eileen.

Cas pulls away with a smile, fingers moving to brush the blush on Dean’s cheeks. It’s weird that he never learned to be embarrassed by public displays of affection and kissing and all the millions of other things people get weird about, but—it’s kinda nice, too. Like he isn’t ashamed. Like he’ll never be ashamed.

Cas squeezes his hand and the corner of Dean’s mouth tugs up in a grin.

_Ten!_

Cas turns to the screen, eyes wide.

_Nine!_

He smiles.

_Eight!_

Turns back to Dean.

_Seven!_

“ _Six!_ ” Dean says.

“ _Five!_ ” Cas joins in.

“ _Four! Three! Two! One!_ ”

“Happy—mmph!”

Dean kisses him.

Cas’s mouth is half open and they knock teeth, but they’re old pros by now, and for a second the cheering and the Dollar Tree poppers and noisemakers drown out the sounds of their family and it’s… a kiss. A good kiss. A _great_ kiss. Dean’s pretty sure that no one in the history of ever has had such a good fuckin’ kiss to kick off the new year. They pull away with wide smiles and Cas tilts his head. “What—”

Jack appears at their side. “Happy new year, Cas!”

Dean’s never done this; the barrage of kisses and hugs on New Year’s Eve, drunk on pizza and beer and with cheap champagne in his hand. He hugs Jack for a good long while, then Claire, then Eileen. Gets the rest of the family and squeezes Sammy within in inch of his life. He’s looking at them, all of them, alive and laughing and just… here, when Cas comes up behind him.

“We’ve lost a lot of people,” Dean says hoarsely, turning to him. He blinks back tears.

“We have.”

“But this is…”

Cas nods. Steps closer. Kisses him again, sweet and slow.

“Happy new year,” he breathes as he pulls away.

Dean fucking loves him.

“Happy new year.”


End file.
